Of Hockey Games and Maple Syrup
by Apocalyptic Lore
Summary: Matthew makes the mistake of inviting Francis to a hockey game. Franada, Oneshot


A/N: An obscenely fluffy, humorous one-shot from yours truly, mostly just a little idea that popped into my head last night (at a hockey game, naturally). A break from my longer series and drabbles…

My first Franada fic, so I'm not sure if this has been done yet or not. If so, I deeply apologize!

Enjoy!~

* * *

Matthew let out a contented, mildly-pleased sigh, stepping from behind the embroidered shower curtain, sopping wet from top to bottom. Wiping the last inkling of drowsiness from his gleaming eyes of violet, the young nation groped around in the steamy fog of the room (likely brought on by the intense heat of the shower), brushing his fingers lightly against a towel sitting atop the bathroom sink. He yanked the towel rather forcefully towards his naked body, wrapping its soothing cloth around his waist and tying it there securely. The Canadian whisked another towel out of a woven basket sitting beside the toilet, wiping off every last inch of his flushed face. In response to the excessive flow of water droplets cascading from his ginger locks of hair, Matthew skillfully enveloped the top of his head, tresses and all, in this second, lavender-scented cloth and maneuvered around the bathroom, over to the sink, upon which his glasses rested in waiting. He pinched the nose bridge of his spectacles, gingerly lifting them from the countertop and placing them in his opposite hand. Inhaling one last blissful scent of the steamy, humid room, his right hand, unoccupied by his glasses, twisted the doorknob vigorously and pulled it back, taking a single step into the hall before instantly regretting his decision.

"Ah, Mathieu!" sounded a cheerful, all-too-familiar voice. The Canadian found himself stepping right into the (thankfully clothed) body of Francis Bonnefoy, who was preoccupied leaning against the wall, assumedly awaiting his fellow nation to finish with his shower. Matthew couldn't respond for what seemed to him like hours, though in truth only about thirty seconds had passed, until Francis gently patted his towel-wrapped head. "How was your shower? Lovely, I hope."

"W-W-What are you doing here?" Matthew muttered inquiringly, taking a hesitant step back from his spot against the Frenchman's chest. He remained forever grateful for his shower having been a particularly hot one; his scarlet-tinted cheeks would seem to come from said cleansing, right? So, possibly, Francis wouldn't assume that he was genuinely embarrassed, and slightly infuriated?

Francis took no notice, but instead gazed down ever-so-slightly, a mischievous glint in his sapphire orbs. "Why, I can't visit my old companion ever once and a while? Oh, _mon cheri_, you break my heart! Surely you don't mind me staying over for a little while? I spent so much money on the airplane tickets…"

"Francis, please, can we talk about this_ after_ I'm dressed?" he asked timidly, casting his gaze towards the opposite wall in humiliation.

"Oh, but why can't we discuss it nude? I always have preferred the "bare" look, you know." Once again, that naughty shimmer caught in his gaze as it casually looked down once more. "You _do _pull off the look rather well, you know."

"What are you-" As those three meaningless words escaped his lips, a frigid Canadian wind seemed to pick up, blowing swiftly passed the window and into the house… and, as it bellowed down the hallway, Matthew felt a nippy chill in a particular region. _Oh no… Oh, gods, no!_ But, indeed, as the younger nation's eyes averted to said region, he promptly found his first towel, bundled up on the floor at his feet. "A-Aah!" he shrieked briefly, swiping the towel from the carpet and wrapping it back around his naked waist, fleeing in distress passed his intruder and into the bedroom, heart threatening to batter out of his chest as he slammed the door behind him.

_Why does this always have to happen around _him_?_ he wondered, shuffling hurriedly through the dresser drawers and whisking out a simple outfit for himself. Dressing with exceptional speed, he flung the door back open and whirled around to face his French guest, who had evidently been flipping through Matthew's living room bookshelf to pass the time, likely seeking out a book of unmentionable smut or sex… or who knows what else? Exhaling in deep exasperation, Matthew staggered from the bedroom and over to Francis' side, prodding him lightly on the shoulder to catch his attention. "Um… Francis?"

The older nation turned to face his host, a slight expression of disapproval masking his face. "Oh, Mathieu, you disappoint me. You mean to say that you don't have any _real_ books on these shelves? What's this, _The Vast History of the Maple Leaf_? How undesirable!"

"Look, Francis… I'm grateful that you decided to visit, really." A blatant lie, it was, though the tone of his voice showed no inkling of insincerity. "But, I'm incredibly busy this week, especially tonight." Another fib. "I have this hockey game that I need to attend, and-"

"Hockey, you say?" Francis released a prolonged yawn, rescanning the bookshelf with observant eyes. "I'll never understand what it is about that sport that appeals to you and your people so much. It's so rough, what with the cross-checking and the fighting… Why can't they all just-"

"I've told you many times; they can't be naked because little children come to watch, and they can't have any sort of lust-battle for the same reason! Oh, maple…" he muttered, appropriately placing his forehead into his palm. "Look, regardless, I have to go tonight, and I don't want you here alone."

A somewhat mocking face of agony plastered itself onto the Frenchman's face, hands suddenly darting forward to caress his host's face. "Oh, but _mon cheri_, don't you trust me enough to let me stay at your estate for just one night?"

_No, not particularly,_ he thought begrudgingly, though kept such thoughts exactly that. "Francis… you can't stay here. I'm sorry, but it won't work. You can go rent an inn or something. I know of a pretty decent place just down the road… And please let go of me."

"But, Mathieu, I complimented your vital regions, did I not?" Francis was all but groveling on the ground now, gazing pleadingly into the pools of violet that matched his own in intensity, though different in hue.

"W-Well, that's-"

"I'll do anything! Even if… Even if I have to go with you to the hockey game!"

Well, that certainly caught the Canadian's attention. Matthew stood, perplexed, as what seemed like an eternity passed back and forth between them. Tensely, the younger nation brushed Francis' hands away from his face, a bit reluctant to reply. Why would his former guardian suddenly be so eager to spend time with him? Could it be that Francis was in a much worse situation than he had previously feared? Or was he maybe just motivated to get into the Canadian's pants? Either way, he knew his answer should have been rejection. Yet, all the same, the words escaped his parted lips with a heavy sigh. "Fine. But you're paying for the ticket."

********

"Oh, Mathieu! Why on earth are they putting him putting him in the secluded area over there?"

The poor, migraine-driven Canadian was much too busy regretting his decision to answer for the longest time. He rubbed gently at his throbbing temples as the Frenchman, sitting to his left, made the bluntest of statements. For instance, just before first intermission, there had been a brawl between one man of the home team and one of the away team. After a few aggravated jabs back and forth, the home team's player had knocked his opponent to the ground and was on top of him, trying to get in another hit, and the linesman had been forced to separate the two and guide them both off the ice. Francis had, not-so-innocently, asked why the striped men had separated the two; apparently, the Frenchman was under the impression that the two were about to begin some sort of hot lovemaking. Oh, how Matthew wished he could change his decision!

Second intermission was upon them, much too soon for Francis and much too late for his companion. A few words were spoken from the lips of the announcer, sending a pang of fear surging through the body of the younger nation as he turned to his former guardian warily. "Francis, during the second intermission, they often have a "kiss cam", in which they zoom in on different people and try to see who can… well, kiss the other the best. If you get chosen, please don't begin groping the woman beside you. She looks as if she's in her forties, but I wouldn't put it passed them. Every now and then, they pick out parents and their children, as well as old, eighty-year-old couples. It's all a bit pointless, in my opinion…"

"A kiss cam?" Francis' eyes gleamed with excitement. "Oh, how intriguing! Tell me, do they ever choose two males?"

"Generally not, no. I don't think I've ever-" And, as his eyes darted to the screen dangling up above, he made out the rather… startling image of himself and Francis, sitting beside one another, as the Frenchman held a pink bow against his companion's ginger hair. "F-Francis!" he hissed, face flushing crimson as the Frenchman waggled his eyebrows at him suggestively.

"Oh, _mon cheri_, it's required, is it not? They think you're a woman, after all…" Without awaiting a reply from his companion, Francis slipped a hand beneath Matthew's chin and forced their lips crashing together in a passionate, obviously-experienced kiss. Matthew's rejections slurred together within his throat as the skillful lips massaged his own, both vigorously and gently, and the camera zoomed in on them as the surrounding crowd whooped and cheered. Matthew began pulling away reluctantly, a bit flustered from what had just occurred in public view, only to get pulled back by Francis, who proceeded to run his tongue tantalizingly over the Canadian's swollen lips, catching him by surprise. Matthew resisted the urge to give in and pushed him away, ever-thankful as the camera had moved on to another couple. Horrified by what had just occurred, he cast glances in every which direction, feeling tiny and subconscious.

"F-Francis! What was… you can't go making out with people in public!" he protested, placing a hand up to his lips where he had been kissed so pleasingly sensually. "It's… It's just-"

The Frenchman looped an arm loosely around his companion's waist, pulling them closer together despite Matthew's weak attempts at grumbled protests. "_Mon cheri_, we did much more than this the last the I visited! Why, we even involved that sugary syrup of yours into the process. Why would you be so reluctant now?"

"I-I don't remember ever having-"

"Yes, you do," he said with a smirk, brushing his lips against the cartilage of Matthew's ear teasingly. "You were just too drugged on love to notice."

"I really don't recall ever having done anything like that…" he whispered, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear timidly. "Unless you somehow managed to get me drunk or something."

"No, you were perfectly sober. You responded to my movements in perfect unison…"

"But I-"

"Unless you were sleep walking?"

"Wait, we were walking?"

"You came into my room, I kissed you, you responded. It's all pretty simple, really…"

"Oh,God…" Matthew mumbled, rubbing his temples harder. Vaguely, the memory began flooding back, of the lips, of the touching, of the maple syrup… "I don't believe this…" His voice hitched as Francis' arm traveled a bit too low, and rapidly smacked it away half-heartedly.

The two sat in silence for the remainder of intermission, broken only by Francis asking, once, "Can we go back to your house and do that again?"

Matthew had shoved him away, though found himself rising from his bed covers around three a.m. and trudging into the guest room down the hall, bottle of maple syrup in hand.

* * *

A/N: Eh, I don't like the ending. I couldn't get it to come out the way I wanted, so I changed it entirely…

Anyway, **review** please! And check out my other stories! I'm a complete reviewholic, so the more, the merrier!


End file.
